


Magic

by mallotovcocktail



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, human!Cas, magician!dean, street magician au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:51:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1776460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallotovcocktail/pseuds/mallotovcocktail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The blonde street performer had appeared in an appropriately miraculous fashion and had quickly become as much a fixture of the square as the fountain on which Castiel was enjoying sliced lunch meat. Castiel’s coworkers had talked about him for several days. At first, Zachariah had tried to “call someone” to take care of the magician. Naomi had agreed with his paranoia, calling the man a gypsy, citing his jeans, boots, and leather jacket as proof that the performer was scamming to steal the wallets and lunch money of passersby. </p>
<p>Castiel watched the man work, pull doves out of sleeves and produce flowers for attractive men and women onlookers alike. He smiled despite himself, imagining that wonder was possible for him. The magician found people’s cards in shuffled decks and pulled coins out of the ears of giggling children and beamed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magic

Castiel’s teeth scraped against one another as his canines parted the bread and ham of his sandwich. He was sitting on the edge of his usual fountain outside the museum. The sleeves of his trenchcoat were rolled up to his elbows as he ate his lunch. He’d been eating here at noon every weeks day for a little over a year and the magician hadn’t appeared until the beginning of last week.

The blonde street performer had appeared in an appropriately miraculous fashion and had quickly become as much a fixture of the square as the fountain on which Castiel was enjoying sliced lunch meat. Castiel’s coworkers had talked about him for several days. At first, Zachariah had tried to “call someone” to take care of the magician. Naomi had agreed with his paranoia, calling the man a gypsy, citing his jeans, boots, and leather jacket as proof that the performer was scamming to steal the wallets and lunch money of passersby. 

Castiel watched the man work, pull doves out of sleeves and produce flowers for attractive men and women onlookers alike. He smiled despite himself, imagining that wonder was possible for him. The magician found people’s cards in shuffled decks and pulled coins out of the ears of giggling children and beamed. 

Finishing his sandwich, Castiel packed up his lunch. The magician’s green eyes found Castiel’s over the heads of his small crowd, as they usually did when Castiel began to leave, and a small, genuine smile replaced that of the showman. Castiel blushed, nodding awkwardly, and continued to the museum. 

“Clarence!” Meg, one of the employees from the front of the museum, not a curator or historian, called for him as he entered the glass doors. Her face was uncharacteristically serious. She was frowning. “I’m sorry to ask, but I’ve got a family emergency and a class coming in at one.” Meg was rambling, showing just how upsetting whatever happened was. 

“I’ll take your class,” Cas said.

“Ruby is out sick and Hester already has a class until 2,” Meg continued, not hearing him. “Wait.” She followed Castiel to the door that restricted entrance to staff only. He smiled. 

“You’ll do it? Oh, thank fuck. I owe you one, Clarence. Seriously, anything.” Castiel waved her off as he approached his desk. He looked at the Renaissance painting he was restoring and the flashing light that meant the art dealer he’d been waiting for a call from had called during the twenty minutes he’d been away. 

He listened to the message, checked his emails, and dug in his drawers until he found his hardly used name tag. _Castiel Novak. Ph. D. Religious Art History_. The silver embossed letters shouted at the reader. 

He met the teacher outside the doors of the main museum building, shaking the hand of the smiling woman and listening as she pointed out the parent volunteers. Castiel nodded politely, dreading the next several hours of trying to keep fourth graders silent and absorbing art. He cleared his throat and they were off.

They were only a few rooms into the tour when Castiel saw him. The magician from the square was standing in front of Castiel’s favorite paintings and proudest restorations, a depiction of Michael poised above a demon with his sword aloft. The man was standing casually, his hands thrust into his pockets, the sleeves of his grey henley rolled up to his elbows. Castiel stumbled on his speech. 

The magician was gone by the time Castiel had brought the student’s over to the painting. Castiel squashed down his disappointment as he explained the symbolism in extremely simplified terms. 

He saw the magician again when he led the students into the second building.  
The man was sitting on a bench, his chin in his hand, his eyes shining as they traced the lines of Klimt piece. Castiel cleared his throat and began to summarize the life of the Austrian artist. Students whispered amongst themselves as Castiel took questions. 

His eyes scanned the crowd of tiny children and caught on the magician’s long eyelashes. The man smiled, nodding towards the painting. They stared at each other. Castiel felt sparks and shivers running through his spine. Warmth filled Castiel’s neck and cheeks. 

The magician dissolved into the walls of color as a student began babbling an unrelated anecdote. The next hour passed quickly and with only one bathroom break.

Castiel was walking backwards, leading the children into the part of the tour where he allows the students to roam free among the paintings of the feature exhibit, when he glanced over his shoulder a moment too late. His back slammed into the back of the performer and he bounced away instantly, his mouth falling open.

The teacher, Miss Blake, Castiel recalls, had already taken over, reminding the students of the rules of the school and the museum. Castiel turned around, looking at the man’s knees.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathed. His eyes swept up the plaid shirt that was tied around the magician’s waist and over the amulet that sat on the man’s collarbone. 

“No problem, man.” The magician was smiling. Castiel knew that he recognized him. He blushed. “Castiel,” he read, smiling as he rolled the letters of Castiel’s name on his tongue. “It’s nice to put a name to the face of my biggest fan.” Castiel blushed as the performer winked. “I’m Dean. Dean Winchester.” 

Castiel looked at the man’s outstretched hand and smiled. 

“I think to be a fan I’d have to be fooled by the tricks.” Castiel thanked whomever had given him the sudden sauve ability to make such a comment. Dean laughed, his head thrown back.

“I’ve punched guys for calling them tricks before.” Castiel rolled his eyes and Dean’s smile grew wider.

“I’ve been coming in here all week, you know.” Castiel tilted his head, questioning. Dean scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, I don’t know.” He looked away, to the corner of the room’s ceiling. “I knew you worked here, you have a badge, and I wanted to know your name.” He caught Castiel’s eyes, smiled. “I was going to give up. Figured you worked in the back, something fancy, executive or whatever.

“Ph. D. though, huh?” Dean nodded at Castiel’s name tag. “So probably a curator.”

“Restorer and curator.” Castiel smiled. “You came to see me?”

“Yeah!” Dean blushed again. “I mean, you’re hot. I mean, no, that’s not the only reason. You are hot but there was something else. You were a mystery, an illusion. I needed to find out how the trick worked.”

“And?” 

“I’m going to need some help, I think.” Dean was practically radiant, smiling at Castiel like an exploding star. “Maybe I can figure it out over dinner? Tonight?”

“I think that might be the best method to perfecting the illusion, yes.”

Dean reached towards Castiel’s collar hesitantly, his face questioning. Castiel nodded lightly. Dean fiddled with Castiel’s shirt, making eye contact as his fingers danced onto Castiel’s jaw, stopping just below his ear. Castiel pressed his cheek into the touch. Dean smirked, twisting his hand and pulling a piece of paper out of thin air. He pressed the phone number into Castiel’s palm. 

“Text me your address.” Dean turned, watching Castiel over his shoulder. “See you at 8, Cas.”


End file.
